peevish mama

I think you see people at their purest when they don’t know they’re being watched. Written out, that’s a painfully obvious statement. Yesterday I dropped Supergirl off at school and although I don’t typically walk her in, I do stay and wait until she gets in the door. She ran toward school, her backpack bouncing against her rump, turning around once to wave and blow a kiss. Just like that, she stepped seamlessly out of her home life into her school life, her public life. She had her hand on the door when she spotted a Golden Retriever tied up to the fence. She jerked the door, changed her mind and walked over to the dog, her hand outstretched and facing up — just as Red Vogue taught her. First she knelt, then she sat, her face level with the dog’s. She was petting him, and this is the part that killed me, she found the dog’s tag and bent her face in to read it. It mattered to her. Who is this dog? The dog rested his chin, for just a moment, on top of her bent head. Kids streamed past her as she sat with the dog, running her fingers through his thick biscuit coat. I watched from the car, my foot on the brake, feeling like a voyeur into the very essence of sweetness. How is this girl even mine?